


watching me (wanting me)

by Kierkegarden



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Borderline OOC, Darkfic, Disturbing Themes, Enemies, F/M, Hate Crimes, Hera Fights Back, Love/Hate, Masturbation, Minor canon divergence, Misogyny, Objectification, One-Sided Attraction, Powerplay, Sadism, Speciesism, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 01:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14250087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: They call themselves the Phoenix squadron after the mythical bird that rises from the ashes, but in all of his extended studies, Thrawn has yet to come across any creature that refused to die. Given enough pressure, any lifeform will collapse, and if Syndulla continues to insist on going out like a supernova, Thrawn decides that he will be in the front row to watch her implode.or Thrawn's quest to acquire a very important symbol: the subjugation and submission of Hera Syndulla, goes horrible awry.





	watching me (wanting me)

**Author's Note:**

> First - yeah. We're all transcending back to 2007 because I named it after Evanescence lyrics.  
> Second - read tags carefully. This is not a healthy, happy story, but I refuse to write a helpless Hera. Phoenixes fight fire with whatever they can get their hands on.

Things change, Thrawn knows. Circumstances, over time, morph into new opportunities. There’s always something else. A third option comes to light in time, for those patient enough to wait around for it, and a fourth. Consciousness is not a destination, it’s simply a moving target on an ever-splintering roadmap. Re-evaluation _is_ tactics. Thrawn knows. Thrawn knows a great many things.

And yet, this time, he doesn’t want to let them go. He had them right where he wanted them, could see Syndulla’s ship swinging towards the heavens and he feels it, the jump, in his very bones, feels her laughter on the other side of time.

It’s torturous and Thrawn feels it bodily. He feels his head, usually sharp as a blade and crystal clear go dull and fuzzy, his limbs weaken. It’s almost akin to lust, or so he’s read, the physical symptoms. Heart rate, flush (Thrawn feels his cheeks tentatively to confirm), even this building sensation, clustering in his gut. With nothing to show. He had her in the palm of his hand. He was so close. His stomach tightens around nothingness.

What has come over him? Thrawn removes his belt with a click and shrugs off the white overshirt, heads to the training room with staff in hand. He’ll tend to the ache the only way he knows how. And when she comes back, he’ll be ready for her.

 

\--

 

The second time Captain Syndulla escapes, the ache hits a little harder. It had been a well-executed plan on her behalf, but those few fleeting moments while Thrawn had held her. That was what made it almost unbearable. Hera didn’t smell like a Corellian rose, like the whorehouse rabble that put a name to the females of her race. Instead, she smelled like dust and metal and grease and dirty, dirty sweat. He had made sure that she knew he was smelling her and her face was what had made it so intoxicating: the complete repulsion, offense at his audacity to subjugate her: a building climax.

“What is the matter with you?” she had spat through her teeth.

“I’m learning,” he had explained, “Learning so much more about you, Hera Syndulla, every moment that we spend together.”

What had he gathered?

  1. That Hera was a child of war, had known nothing but directionless throws of violence and clung to hope as a beacon in that storm. Without hope, she would find something else to cling to. Those who know no peace must have it forged for them, but never on their own terms.
  2. That Hera was painfully loyal. To her living family, to her crew, to her cause, and even to the dead. To the Twi’lek people, to the Syndulla legacy. Her choice to leave Ryloth still carried emotional weight and there was a degree of guilt there as well. She had to pick her battles and this fact troubled her.
  3. That her Kalikori bore some of the weight for her. He would have to take precious care of it in her stead.



When he was done with her, he had thanked her for her time and left, to revisit the holding cell later, but before he could return, the rebels had staged their clever getaway. It had taken great concentration to maintain his reason, but Thrawn had the capability for such endeavors. Hera had given him such a lovely gift in the time they had spent together, after all: stray emotions, weak spots, and loose ends. Things that could be mapped out and followed later.

Presently, Thrawn pictures her determined smile, as he holds the Kalikori like a pilot’s rutter, mimicking how he pictures her hands. So small, nearly half the size of his own and callused from flight. He lingers on them in his mind, traveling up the soft contour of her arms, collarbones, long, graceful neck. Finally, her face. Celebratory. He had made sure of it.

That image alone sends another rush directly to his cock, the fact that he can manipulate her emotions in such a way. He alone had made her snarl at him and it was by his mercy alone that she was smiling. Thawn _controls_ her, he holds the strings loose above her head and can pull them taught whenever. he. wants to.

It’s almost too much, takes Thrawn right where he wants to go. He reclines on his bed, sliding a lazy hand around himself as he pictures it. They’re resourceful, the rebels, but there is only so much that Syndulla can do without Thrawn playing his cards. He’d wait until the last minute, when they had built up a fierce hope (much like a climax, he thinks idly, as he coaxes his own, in no hurry for release.) Then, when she’s there, on the edge of victory, the taste of freedom on her lips, he’ll arrive. He’ll bring his fleet of destroyers, the new model TIEs fresh from production, he’ll bring the might of the Empire and he’ll pull those strings so taught that she hangs suspended in space for the entire galaxy to see her failure. But he’ll make sure that the last thing she sees is his face looking down at her.

They call themselves the Phoenix squadron after the mythical bird that rises from the ashes, but in all of his extended studies, Thrawn has yet to come across any creature that refuses to die. Given enough pressure, any lifeform will collapse, and if Syndulla continues to insist on going out like a supernova, Thrawn decides that he will be in the front row to watch her implode.

Mm. The Captain’s face broken, posture bent in submission, just as it should be. It really is a delicious image. Thrawn massages the bundle of nerves on the underside of his cock faster, feels his toes curling and buttocks clenching tight, before - stars - the white-hot burst of pleasure erupts on it’s target, pearlescent come splattering the Kalikori.

Now it truly does look like a spectre.

 

\--

 

Thrawn is good at what he does, even for Chiss. He has ascended to his rank for a reason. He is highly capable and incredibly hard to fool. ISB-021, the Agent Aleksandr Kallus, was almost painfully clumsy in his execution. If Thrawn had an excess of time, he would have educated the man on how to do it better next time, the next time that they both know does not exist.

The heart of a rebel always glows, like a beacon of hope, desperation, and the most interesting part to Thrawn - the bit that underlies it all, hubris. To call oneself a phoenix implies the belief that one will rise again, but glowing beacons don’t hide well in dark corridors and so Kallus is rooted out, noted, and used. He leaves a glimmering trail directly where Thrawn wants to go. Directly to Syndulla.

Here, Thrawn orchestrates the show in her own arena. Here on Lothal, he watches ship after ship of her precious fleet plumet phoenix-fire towards the ground. He knows that she’s watching, knows that she’s probably crying, thinking of how easily he has bested her. Thrawn reconsiders. Perhaps it would be best to prolong her destruction -- pull every loose end by its root until she is friendless, alone, _his._ That, of course, is not tactically sound but it’s enough to send Thrawn careening over the edge.

Would she submit then before him, once everything else was gone? Thrawn knows the answer before he asks the question. Hera Syndulla would not bow unless she was bound there in place and broken down through a long, careful and thoroughly researched conversation.

So I’ll bind her, Thrawn shudders, thinking of Hera’s body pinioned down naked before him: full clothed and towering over her. Her eyes are still flaring with defiance.

He comes messily on his stomach.

 

\--

 

He has her. Finally, he has her alone, like a coveted art piece, displayed within a sensible frame. Governor Pryce may have wanted to hear her scream and while there is something to that too, something primal and arousing in exposing Hera to so much pain that she can’t help but cry out, Thrawn thinks he would prefer to hear her talk.

Any person will cry out when their body meets its physical limit, in time. The true art is executing mental defeat, complete subjugation. In his mind, Thrawn will allow himself to call her Hera now, not Captain Syndulla, General, or whatever other rank they devised to make her feel important. Hera is a special case, brilliant and stubborn and loyal, but she no longer matters. She is part of his collection. She is in his gallery, under his domain. He has her.

“I’ll die before I tell you anything.” They lock eyes and Thrawn feels his lip twitch because as he anticipated, he is still so far ahead in this game that they’re playing (and she was the closest thing to a worthy opponent.)

“I imagine you will,” he turns away, with the knowledge that she’s still straining to see his face sending sparks of pleasure through him. “I imagine you would die, like so many of your friends are dying valiantly, or like so much of your family died on Ryloth.”

Thrawn turns to drink in Hera’s reaction, but she’s managed to straighten her face. No matter. He gently lifts the Kalikori from behind his back, stroking the dangling wooden carvings between his thumb and forefinger with the gentleness of a lover.

“I was hoping you’d be willing to tell me more about your Kalikori,” Thrawn says gently, “These pieces that I collect --” and he very much has faith that she will catch the full extent of his meaning “-- they are much so more to me than mere trophies. To me, they are symbols of conquest over my greatest adversaries.”

Her coy smile startles him, as she takes on a smooth, soft tone, reminiscent of his own. “Yes, of course, Grand Admiral. I understand your deep respect for the art of my people and I would _love_ to help you learn more.”

Thrawn stops dead in his tracks, managing to keep his calm outer veneer, but just barely. This is most strange behavior, and certainly not within the realm of likely reactions. He calculates that she is imitating him in an attempt to challenge his power over her -- it registers logically -- but he can’t shake the creeping dread of recognition that he had been relying on the exchange to go the way he had planned.

“How very kind of you, General,” he says without missing a beat, “Please, do go on.”

“The hanging shapes,” Hera whispers, eyes fluttering, still mocking his slow and steady diction, “represent a lineage. That one there is my father, and that one my mother. Over there, is my baby brother. He passed away while I was still quite young.”

In another world, this would be Thrawn’s fantasy come to life. Hera is submitting herself fully to his will and doing exactly what he tells her to, but as they both know, it’s off. It’s too easy.

“And tell me, General Syndulla,” Thrawn asks, refusing to go down like this, but more importantly, refusing to let her know that she’s made a dent. “How would they react to knowing that their daughter is giving away their precious family history as though it means nothing to her? As though their deaths were...pointless?”

He strains for a crack in her armor.

“With all due respect, I wasn’t done explaining,” Hera continues, gesturing to another carving, “That right there is the spot for me and next to it --” her eyes bore directly into his “-- that’s where you crave to be.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I apologize, Grand Admiral. That’s the spot for the father of my children.”

She says it so earnestly that it takes him an extra moment to process.

“Truthfully, my dear,” The Chiss is aware that his voice is straining and can’t help it, “If I wanted to have you, I could have taken you long ago. And unfortunately, there are plenty of other Twi’lek women who would come crawling to me, ones who far outweigh your beauty. Aesthetics do matter to an art collector such as myself.”

“You are more than an art collector, Grand Admiral,” Hera’s lip curls and Thrawn instantly knows she has him, “You said it yourself. You don’t go looking for trophies. You aspire to collect...symbols.”

He resigns himself to modesty. “You are incredibly intelligent, perhaps more so than I had previously assumed, but I have no pretensions towards the any known rebel, least of all yourself.”

Thrawn feels the last grip of his control on the conversation slip. He stands over her, eyes burning down, relying on his physical position, something he does not prefer at all. Hera’s green eyes are sparkling up at him unphased.

“If you believe me to be so intelligent, you’ll surely follow my logic,” she croons, “I am the ultimate symbol of your power, your biggest challenge to conquer. Why would you not take me, then?”  
They both know she knows the answer.

“You’re practically begging for me,” Thrawn whispers, lips ghosting over the Twi’lek’s. He quells waves of hatred with silent breath as he stares into her eyes, “Perhaps you are the one who has pretensions towards me.”

The concept is titillating in its own right, that Hera has secretly harbored these desires, it’s almost better than breaking them into her. Thrawn feels a pulse in his gut, standing so close, he’s on the edge of victory. The thought is cut off by a giggle. Hera is mocking him.

“There is a difference between begging and asking, Grand Admiral. So I’ll only ask you once more. Why have you not taken me?”

“I…” Thrawn feels himself, for once, finally, at a loss for words.

“Is it because you are relying on me to submit to you?”

“That, my dear,” Thrawn hesitates to breath in, snatching the Kalikori and all of its precious memories as he marches towards the door, “is ridiculous.”

He can feel Hera smirking behind him as closes it gently, activating his comm, “I’ll leave the rest of her interrogation to you, Governor Pryce. Don’t hesitate to use force.”

 

\--

 

Things change, Thrawn knows. Circumstances, over time, morph into new opportunities. He’s positive that it will only take a bit more research, a bit more time, before he has her again.


End file.
